


Second Sight

by sgamadison



Series: The Second Series [7]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-01
Updated: 2011-08-01
Packaged: 2017-10-22 01:52:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/232417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sgamadison/pseuds/sgamadison
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He never saw this sort of thing coming...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Second Sight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bluespirit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bluespirit/gifts).



> Written for the Live Journal Sheppard_hc Summer fic exchange for bluespirit_star

**  
**

The sun beat down on his shoulders, uncomfortably warm through the thin cotton of his T-shirt where it stuck damply between his shoulder blades.  He couldn’t remember it ever being this hot in June before.  He’d give anything for the lemonade his mother used to make.  Cold, tart, with just a touch of pulp.  Served in a glass frosty with condensation on the sides.  He could almost taste it.

 

If there was any lemonade, then it was back at the house, and he was out here in the woods, the air so thick with humidity that sweat beaded at his hairline when he was just standing still.  Sure, he had water to drink, warm and stale from the canteen attached to his saddle.  But he couldn’t shake the longing for the lemonade, and even his twelve-year-old mind knew it was because he missed the person who used to make it.  _Be a man_ , he chided himself, using his father’s words against him.

 

His pony stood fetlock deep in a running stream, head lowered to drink.  The bay was fat and sassy in his summer coat, dapples showing on his flanks in the sunlight.  John had pulled the thick mane a little too short and it was standing up like a Mohawk; Jim Banks had teased him about making his pony look just like him.  John pushed a grubby hand through his hair and knew Jim would skin him alive if he’d known John had gone riding without a hard hat.  It was just too hot, though.

 

It was just too hot.

 

John stared down at the rippling water, marveling at the clarity of it swirling around Gambler’s hooves.  The sand had settled quickly after the pony had stirred it up; John could see minnows darting in the shallows.  There was even a crayfish as well.  The heat continued to pound down from above, and he felt a little queasy with it.  Maybe he should go home.  He knew there was such a thing as heatstroke; perhaps he needed to get in out of the sun for a while.

 

Gambler lifted his head sharply, suddenly alert.  Water dripped from his muzzle as his entire body seemed to be listening to the forest.  John felt the pony tense beneath his legs, positioning himself for a spinning turn that could leave John sitting in the stream if he wasn’t paying attention.  He carefully collected the reins in his hands and tried to sit still. 

 

Somewhere off in the woods, he could hear Buddy barking, a serious, aggressive bark that was out of character for the laid-back Lab that was his constant companion.  The urgency in the bark scared him. He didn’t know why. 

 

“Buddy!” he called out.  “Buddy, come!”

 

The barking stopped abruptly, and he found himself listening intently for the sound of the black Lab bounding back through the brush toward him.  Gambler blew his breath through his nostrils with a snort.  His ears swiveled forward.

 

John let his own breath out with a sigh of relief when he heard the movement in the undergrowth coming toward him.  Gambler, however, shifted his weight from side to side, leaning back on his haunches in a bid to bolt.  John felt the pony’s increasing nervousness, and it spread, taking root in his own heart and filling him with dread.

 

Even though he was half-expecting it, he was still caught off guard when Gambler spun on his haunches, ducking his shoulder so that John was pitched off to one side.  Jim always said that John had the ‘stick-tight’ gene, and it was true; John rarely came off a horse.  But as Gambler scrabbled on the slippery stones in the stream, lurching his way to firmer ground, the short, stubby mane slipped through John’s fingers and he slid off into the water with a splash.

 

The frightened pony nearly kicked John in his haste to leave the stream, sending water and mud flying as he scrambled up the bank and galloped for home.  John landed on his hands and knees in the creek bed, wincing at the pain that shot through one ankle as it twisted underneath him.   

 

The cool water felt good against his skin, and on another day, John would have flopped down in the stream and let it flow around him, soaking him entirely.  Something in the air made him hesitate.  It was too still.  Save for the sound of the stream itself, the woods were silent.  No birdsong.  No cicadas.  No sound of a panting dog crashing through the undergrowth to reach his side.

 

As the cold water soaked his jeans, filling his boots, he was conscious of the thick silence in the air around him.  As though the forest was holding its breath.  The stream was deep in shade, save where the trees parted above the water.  At the top of the small bank, the sun shone down strong and welcoming.  The gap in the brush leading back to the meadow was almost like a gate leading into another world—and safety seemed to lie on the other side.  Something made John remain very still.  He felt as though he was trapped.  His heart began to pound strongly, thrumming in his ears.

 

After a moment, he told himself he was being a stupid and pulled his feet underneath him to stand, gingerly testing his ankle and deciding it would hold his weight.  His boots slipped on the algae-covered river rocks, and he stared down at his footing as he made his way to the bank, arms out for balance.  He didn’t look up until he reached the sandy shoals and a shadow fell across his path.

 

Standing on the bank in front of him was a Wraith, watching him with a smile that sent John’s heart leaping up in his chest like a netted bird trying to take flight. 

 

“I’ve been waiting for you, John Sheppard,” the Wraith said, as he reached forward with his feeding hand.

 

John woke with a start, striking out instinctively.  His arm flailed as though not under his complete control.  Someone had been wiping his face with a cool, damp cloth—he could feel the evaporating moisture on his heated skin. 

 

“He is awake again,” Teyla said in an aside to someone behind her.  “You are safe, John.”  She touched him gently on the shoulder. 

 

It still hurt just the same.  His whole body hurt.  He felt as though he’d been sunburned and as if his clothing had sand in it.  His ankle throbbed and the skin around his neck was on fire.  The lighting was dim, and the room smelled of not very clean animals and lamp oil.  Even the low level light hurt his eyes; he squinted in the direction of the small lantern, disturbed to realize everything was fuzzy and out of focus.

 

“What happened?” he asked.  Or at least, he thought he did.  The words seem to stick in his throat.  Teyla reached up for the canteen that Ronon handed her—John could now make out his looming form in the shadows of the hut.  She had to help John lift his head to drink, and he ended up dribbling water out of the corner of his mouth.  After he’d swallowed, though, he was able to speak.  “Sit rep.”

 

Rodney moved into the yellow glow of the lamp.  “You mean, besides seriously fucked up?  You were attacked by a vicious plant, remember?”

 

John blinked at Rodney for a moment, noticing with a detached sort of interest that Rodney seemed even more upset about the situation than usual.  Maybe because plants didn’t usually go around attacking people—only in Pegasus.  He remembered that part now: the mission to Belspar.  Rodney’s interminable grumping over not being able to fly the skipper into the village because the jungle foliage was too thick.  Teyla’s explanation that the vegetation held shielding properties from the Wraith culling beams and how it was forbidden to cut a path through the forest.  Walking through the Gate into the steamy heat of a jungle, the air thick with humidity and tiny gnats.  The guide who met them, and the weird way the trail opened for his presence and closed behind them as they moved toward the village.

 

Rodney had paused to empty a rock out of his boot, placing one hand on a tree trunk for support.  John had seen a vine uncoil itself from the trunk moments before it lashed out toward Rodney, and had managed to push him out of the way in time.  Not without getting caught by the vine himself.  It had wrapped itself around his ankle and jerked him off his feet, sending another tendril snaking up around his neck.  He’d had to drop his weapon in order to grab the vine with both hands as it tried to choke the life out of him.  Worse had been the steady pull of the plant against him, dragging him back toward the thicket from which it had come.

 

There’d been a lot of yelling, and then Ronon had blasted the vine.  It had recoiled with a hissing sound. Not from the plant though.  From their guide.  Great.  They’d been on the planet twenty minutes and already they’d violated some taboo.  His hands had begun tingling right away where he’d touched the vine, and his skin felt as though it was melting where the plant had grabbed him.

 

 

John had finally had to ask them to hold up.  He was having difficulty breathing, and as he’d stared at his hands, his nails disturbingly wraith-like with a mixture of black dirt and green plant juice beneath them, welts were starting to form.  Well, of course.  Another typical day in Pegasus.

 

Now, in the dim light of the hut, Rodney was looking at John anxiously, and he realized he hadn’t answered Rodney’s question.

 

“I remember that I hate waking up in a yurt.” John heard his words slur, cleared his throat, and tried again.  He was lying on a wooden cot on a mattress stuffed with straw.  He could feel the stemmy plant material poking him through the coarse weave of the bedding.  Someone had removed his tac vest and gun holster, but he was still dressed in his black BDUs and wearing his boots.  So, he probably hadn’t been lying here all that long.  “What happened after I got attacked by the ferocious plant?”

 

“I’ve heard of ferocious planets before, but never a ferocious plant.”  Oddly, Rodney calmed down a bit, as though reassured by the fact that John could still banter with the best of them.  He took a deep breath and continued.  “You had an allergic reaction.  I gave you my epi-pen.”

 

John vaguely remembered that.  “Thanks.”  It was a good thing Rodney was so paranoid.  That epi-pen had come in handy once or twice before.  “Then what?”

 

It was Teyla’s turn now.  “We helped you back to the village as best we could but you began to show signs of delirium and fever.”

 

“I carried you the rest of the way back.  You weigh a ton,” Ronon said.  He showed his teeth briefly; a flash of white in the gloom of the hut.  John could tell that Ronon was worried about him by the brevity of his teasing.

 

“Ronon was just about to leave to go get help.”  There was something in his tone that suggested Rodney was leaving something out—part of a conversation that John had missed.  Ronon shifted as though to respond, but Rodney forestalled him with a raised hand.  “You’re the one they’re pissed with, Ronon.  Besides, I would just slow you down.  Once you get back to the gate, you can get a more experienced pilot to bring a skipper in to drop a stretcher so we can airlift the Colonel out of here.  You don’t need me for that.”

 

“Why are they…oh, right.”  John remembered the whole ‘shooting the plant’ thing.  Yeah, Ronon probably should get off world as soon as possible.  He blinked several times, hard.  His vision seemed less blurry after that.

 

“They will not provide Ronon with a guide.”  Teyla shot a sharp glance at both men before looking squarely at John.  “I do not believe anyone can safely navigate this jungle without one.”

 

Rodney and Ronon both gave Teyla the sort of look small boys give the tattletale of the bunch. 

 

“Well, maybe if I talk to them.”  John tried to sit up and failed.  His muscles simply refused to work.  “What the hell’s wrong with me?”  A wave of heat suddenly rushed over him and he broke into a light sweat.

 

The heavy hide flap covering the entranceway to the hut was pushed aside, letting in a blast of sunlight and heat that made John wince and clench his eyelids shut.  Two shadowy figures entered the hut.  John was relieved when the flap closed once more.

 

Rodney stepped back to make room for them to approach the cot.  Toma, the man who’d met them at the gate, guided an old woman toward him.  She appeared to be blind; her eyes were covered with a milky looking film that made her look more alien than the typical Pegasus native.

 

“You want to know what is wrong with you?”  The old woman cocked her head like a small bird in the direction of John’s voice.  “You are dying, that is what is wrong.”

 

John knew she spoke the truth; he could feel it in the burning numbness that was creeping over his limbs and moving up to his chest.  It pissed him off just the same, though.

 

“Been told that before,” he said calmly.

 

“You have.  You have.”  The woman nodded in acquiescence.  Her gray hair looked greasy in the lamplight but it must have been a trick of his double vision because for an instant, John thought he could see the outline of the beautiful woman she’d been at one time.  “You’re a slippery one.  You have the Gift.  You have a bit of the Trickster about you.”

 

“Hey,” Rodney protested.  “John Sheppard is one of the good guys, okay?  If he says he’s going to do something, he will, even if it nearly kills him in the process.  You can trust his word.”

 

“That’s not what she meant, Rodney.”  John flicked his fingers up and down in Rodney’s direction in an attempt to get him to back off.  “What do you know of the Trickster?”  He left off the words ‘old woman’ but he was sure she heard them anyway by the way she smiled knowingly.

 

“The Trickster may be foolish or wise.  He may be a hero or a prankster.  He is frequently humorous—he is devious and sly to his enemies.  He does what is necessary to survive.  Sometimes that makes him a hero.  Sometimes that makes him a villain.  He is of a dual nature.  Do you know what I mean, John Sheppard?”

 

He was uncomfortably certain he knew where she was going with this if he pushed her in that direction further.  “I’m just surprised that you know of him.  I always thought the myth of the Trickster was a local thing on my world.”

 

The old woman laughed.  “Where do you think the Trickster came from?  A being that in many legends stole fire from the gods and brought it to the people?  The Trickster was one of the Ancestors.  You would call him an Ancient.”

 

“Okay, thanks for the history lesson, now can we get back to the part where Colonel Sheppard is dying and we need to be doing something about it?”  Rodney’s temper flared, hot and steaming, right on cue, like one of those geysers in Yellowstone Park.

 

“I’m going for help.” Ronon sounded like that was his final answer and woe be unto anyone who tried to stop him.

 

“You will be too late,” the old woman said, without malice. 

 

“I’m sorry,” Rodney said, clearly nothing of the sort.  “And you are?”

 

Toma bristled, even as the old woman smiled again.  “This is Sica,” he said.  “She is the healer in our village and one of the Elders.  You will treat her with the respect she deserves.”

 

“Peace, Toma.”  Sica was calm.  “They are concerned about their friend and leader, as well they should be.”  She turned toward Ronon.  “You really believe that you could make it back to the Ring of the Ancestors?”

 

“Yes,” Ronon said, crossing his arms over his chest.

 

“He was a Runner,” Teyla said with deceptive mildness into the tense silence that followed.  “For seven years.”

 

John could tell this impressed Toma and the old woman.  Seven years was a helluva long time to be chased by the Wraith and survive. 

 

“You trust these men?”  Sica still sounded unconvinced.

 

“With my life.  With the future of my people.  With the future of Pegasus.”

 

John was seriously tempted to tell her maybe she should have stopped after the first bit.  He was disturbed by how often they’d fucked up out of sheer ignorance since they’d come to Pegasus.  The Athosians had certainly suffered more than most cultures they’d encountered, more than anyone other than the Hoffans, or maybe the Genii.  Come to think of it, he had no idea why Teyla still trusted any of them at all.

 

  
  



 

“Guide this man back to the Ring,” Sica said to Toma, as she indicated Ronon.  “I will do what I can for the Colonel.”

 

“You have a treatment?”  Rodney’s voice was sharp.  John could tell he was on the verge of demanding why Sica had withheld this information as long as she had.

 

“Sica!” Toma protested.  “This man Ronon violated the Law!  He desecrated the forest!”

 

Sica merely shook her head slowly.  To Rodney, she said, “I can only delay the inevitable.  Our people learn at a very young age how to spot Mother’s Bane and avoid coming into contact with it.  You came to us offering superior medicines in exchange for the right to study our plants.  I suggest now you prove their worth.”

 

To Toma, she replied, “This man has spent seven years staying alive when others would have died.  That means breaking many rules, Toma.  Break them first and ask permission later, yes, Ronon Dex?  I thought so.”  She nodded as though Ronon had answered.  “His ways are not our ways.  He acted to save his leader.  To save his friend.  We must help him back to the Ring.”

 

“If you say so, Sica.”  The look Toma shot Ronon burned with feeling.  Ronon curled a lip in response.

 

“Boys,” Sica was stern.  “If you must see who can piss the highest, at least take it outside the hut.”

 

John saw Teyla cover her smile with one hand, until she caught his eye upon her and her amusement faded.  Sica turned to face him, and it felt as though she were watching his interaction with Teyla.How could a blind woman had sense the exchange between the two men, or Teyla and himself?

 

“As you wish, Sica.”  Toma removed her hand from where it rested his arm and bowed briefly in the direction of John, Teyla, and Rodney, chucking his head toward the entranceway as he indicated Ronon should follow.  “Try to keep up,” he said.

 

John couldn’t help smiling.  Toma was in for it now.

 

Sica raised her hand to halt them.  “There is the matter of payment.” 

 

“Payment?  Are you _serious_?”  Rodney’s voice rose several octaves. 

 

“Rodney,” Teyla warned.

 

“No, let me get this straight.  You have the knowledge to help the Colonel here but you’re going to withhold treatment until we pay up?  Is that it?”  Rodney was clearly incensed now.  He was practically frothing with it.

 

“Are you saying that you do not think the Colonel is worth the price of the payment?”  Sica tilted her head to one side, a slight smile on her face.

 

“No!”  Rodney made a little frustrated gesture with his hands, which looked remarkably as though he was strangling something.  “I’m saying it is incredibly mercenary of you when you’ve already offered to help.  We’d help _you_ if we could and we wouldn’t stick you with a big bill before picking up the toolbox.”

 

“Admirable.”  Her tone was dry.  She held out her hand to Ronon.  “Give me your greatest treasure.”

 

Ronon’s fingers closed over the handle of his gun and John briefly thought he was going to hand it over. With the barest hesitation, however, he reached inside his tunic and removed a small oilskin packet, which he placed in Sica’s hand.  She smoothed the leather between her fingers and smiled.  “She was a lovely woman,” she said inexplicably, tucking the packet inside the pocket of her skirt.

 

John squinted over in Ronon’s direction.  Ronon had tied his dreads back because of the heat, leaving his face open for examination, but his expression was shuttered and closed just the same.

 

Sica turned to Teyla next.  Without a word, Teyla unclasped her necklace and coiled it and the chain in Sica’s palm, closing Sica’s fingers over it as she did so.

 

“Ah,” Sica murmured.  “A gift from your father—very powerful.”

 

She leaned in toward John as she placed Teyla’s necklace in her pocket as well.  “And you, Colonel Sheppard?  What will you give me?”

 

John shrugged, feeling light-headed and shivery again.  It was getting hard to concentrate.  He thought of his mother, the last time he could remember her laughing and healthy, and for an instant, he wanted to see her so badly that he felt the prick of tears in his eyes.  His chest felt tight, as though he couldn’t get any air.

 

Sica’s blank expression seemed to be looking right through him.   

 

“You must give me your soul,” she pronounced.  There it was again, the sense that he was looking at a much younger woman.  It was there in the sly smile on her face.

 

“No, what?  Oh, come on, surely that isn’t done any more.  I object!  I can object, can’t I?”  Rodney looked at Teyla and Ronon for support.  “That would make her the Devil here.”

 

“And you could be Daniel Webster,” John murmured.  “God knows you could talk the ear off a donkey.”

 

“Watch it, your prep school background is showing, Colonel.” Rodney retorted, without even pausing for breath.  “And you’d know all about donkeys and ears, wouldn’t you?”

 

“She doesn’t mean my _soul_ soul, Rodney.”  John found himself drawling even more than usual.  “Right, Sica?”

 

She cackled.  There was no other word for it.  “That depends on your interpretation.  I will tell you this: you will see things about yourself that you may not want to know.  Can you live with that, Colonel?”

 

“I live with a lot every day,” John said simply, feeling Rodney’s burning stare upon him and ignoring it.  He was just too tired to care.

 

“And what about you?”  She inclined her head toward Rodney.

 

“Me? Well, I don’t exactly carry my greatest treasures around with me. Well, I _don’t_ ,” he said, shooting a fierce look at Ronon and Teyla, as though they had spoken.  “For precisely this sort of reason.  Pegasus doesn’t exactly have the best reputation, you know.” 

 

“You must have something, McKay,” Ronon growled.

 

“I’ve already given the Colonel both epi-pens,” Rodney snapped.  He pointed at his skull, presumably at his brain.  “This isn’t exactly removable.  Unless Madame Sica wants an iPod, I don’t really have anything else to offer.”

 

“Both?” How many epi-pens did Rodney own?  “Shit, Rodney, what if you’d been affected by the plant too?”

 

“You have yourself to give.” Sica acted as though John had not spoken.

 

“I have my what?”  Rodney sputtered.  He cast a look in John’s direction that was three parts smug superiority and one part that looked suspiciously like longing—which confused John, until he remembered the whole ‘delirium’ bit.  Still, it gave him a small glow of hope, no brighter than a firefly on a summer’s evening, and just as fleeting.

 

“What exactly do you mean?” Rodney asked.  “We’re not talking indentured servitude here, are we?”

 

Sica waited, but if she was expecting Rodney to cave in and relent, well, John hoped she wasn’t holding her breath.

 

“What do you want me to say?” Rodney complained, spreading his hands wide and looking at Teyla and Ronon for some support.  “I have myself to give?  That’s meaningless.  It’s just some mumbo-jumbo.”

 

“Give her the iPod, McKay.”  John let his irritation show.  He watched as Rodney fished the player out of his knapsack and hand it over to Sica, taking the time to explain to her how to turn it on and off, how to find the menu, and how to put in the ear buds.  John was surprised at his patience—how he guided her fingers to the small indentation on the surface of the iPod and demonstrated how to change the settings.  When he realized that she couldn’t see the changes, he took the player back, making a quick adjustment.

 

“There,” he said with satisfaction.  “I’ve set it on ‘shuffle’.  Now it will continuously cycle through the music on the menu—or at least it will until it runs out of power.”

 

Sica fingered the thin device but placed it in her pocket without turning it on.

 

“Go now,” she said to Ronon.  “You must hurry.”

 

To John’s surprise, Ronon came up to the cot.  “You’ll be fine.  I’ll be back with help soon.”  He leaned down to give John a small squeeze on the shoulder.

 

“Shit,” John said with feeling.  “You think I’m gonna die, don’t you?”

 

Ronon looked at him unblinkingly. 

 

“No, seriously.  If you really thought I’d be fine, you’d be telling me what a wuss I was for letting a _plant_ take me out.”

 

Ronon cuffed him lightly on the side of the head and followed the obviously impatient Toma out of the hut without another word.

 

“We seriously need to teach that boy how to do a proper Gibbslap,” John complained.

 

“He’s probably afraid he’ll snap some vertebrae,” Rodney said.  He turned toward Sica and sharpened his tone.  “I believe you mentioned some medical treatment for the Colonel here?” 

 

She nodded.  “We will need to move him.  I will send some men to help.”

 

“Finally,” Rodney said, when Sica had left to seek help in moving John.  “Now maybe we can start to get somewhere.”

 

Neither John nor Teyla responded, so naturally, Rodney kept talking.  Naturally.  _Nature abhors a vacuum._

“I just hope Ronon brings back Carson and not that new person he’s training to take over for him.  What am I saying? Of course, Carson will come. He wouldn’t send a newbie out for something like this, even if he doesn’t want to go off-world any more.”

 

“Dr. Fraiser is hardly a newbie,” Teyla said mildly, but John could hear the underlying annoyance.  How often did Teyla get irritated with all of them but kept it in check?  “She was the chief of staff of your Stargate Command on Earth, after all.  I understand she is a brilliant doctor.”

 

“Yeah, well there’s brilliant and then there’s brilliant _and_ experienced.  And when I say ‘experienced’, I mean with Pegasus problems, not your basic run-of-the-mill Milky Way crap.  I can’t even take a galaxy’s aliens seriously when it shares a name with a candybar.”  Rodney wiped his hands along his thighs as he paced around the small space.  “We’re talking the Colonel here.  Carson will come.”  He sounded as though he were trying to convince himself.  “I can’t believe he wants to return to Earth anyway.  He’s been here since the beginning!”

 

“His mother is very ill, Rodney,” Teyla reminded him.  She lifted the washcloth from the bowl of water, wrung it out, and laid it across John’s brow.  He sighed with the relief of it.

 

“Kinda hard to believe he’d come on what we all believed to be a one-way mission in the first place,” John said, feeling an odd need to continue to be part of the conversation, as though it meant he really wasn’t that ill.  “Being so tight with his family and all.”

 

“He has six or seven siblings who can take care of his mother!  Who’s going to take care of _us_?”  Rodney stopped pacing to fire off angry glares in their direction.

 

John traded a wry look with Teyla, and was surprised to see the tightness in her face when she smiled back.  _Shit_.  She believed he was going to die too.

 

John couldn’t resist.  “Well,” he drawled, “Carson might send Doc Fraiser so she can get some Pegasus-style experience before he returns to Earth.  After all, she’s got to start sometime.”  He started to add that Sam’s high praises had sold him on Janet Fraiser, and that should be good enough for Rodney, only he ran out of steam to keep talking.

 

Teyla lightly pressed on his shoulder as a warning not to wind Rodney up even more, but even her gentle touch made him hiss with pain.

 

“What is it?”  Rodney came over to the cot, his expression full of worry that was so characteristic it almost made John smile. 

 

“Nothing.  I’m fine.”  The heat in the hut was becoming intense.  John didn’t know how much longer he could hold it together. 

 

Rodney rolled his eyes. John could see the sweat dripping down the side of Rodney’s face.  “No one believes that anymore, you know.  We all know that’s Johnspeak for ‘I still have another kidney’ or ‘Pay no attention to the gaping hole in my abdomen.’”

 

The flap of the tent pushed back, and the blinding sunlight flooded into the hut once more.  Someone ducked their head under the entranceway and stood holding the flap open.  It was a woman, lithe and athletic in form-fitting tan britches and black riding boots.  Her dark hair fell in a wave at her forehead and curled at her jaw line in a style reminiscent of Jackie Kennedy.  Her polo shirt was bright blue, and accentuated her dark coloring.  “John,” she said with a laugh.  “Are you still in bed?  Come on, lazybones.  The horses are waiting.”

 

The room spun, and he felt as though he was falling off Gambler again.  Damn it, he was supposed to have the stick-tight gene.

 

John came to with a start, slightly queasy at the jostling movement.  Somehow, he’d been transferred to a stretcher affair and Teyla and Rodney were each by his head as two men from the settlement carried the other end.  He looked up and saw that Rodney was red-faced with the effort of holding up his end of the stretcher, his lips pressed in a thin line, his hair damply clinging to his skull. 

 

“Stay with us, John,” he said tersely.  “We’re almost there.”

 

‘There’ proved to be the opening to a cave in the side of a mountain—the dark gaping hole appearing like a mouth open in surprise.  Sica led the way.  She didn’t stop once they’d entered the blackness of the cavern.  One of the stretcher-bearers indicated they should set the stretcher down while he paused to collect some ball-like fungi near the entrance.  When he touched them, they cast a subdued blue light.

 

 _Magic Mushrooms._  John wanted to share the joke with Rodney, only it didn’t seem worth the effort.  The interior of the cavern felt like the inside of a refrigerator compared to the jungle outside, and John shivered, the sweat chilling his exposed skin.

 

Rodney took the opportunity to complain in a slightly lower than usual volume.  “She might have thought about the fact that no one else can see in pitch-black darkness.  How is it that she’s leading us anyway?  She has to be pulling a Mentalist number on us too—there has to be some way we’re tipping her off on the information about us she couldn’t possibly know.  And why is it that it is always the blind woman who can ‘see’ more than she’s supposed to be able to see?”  He obligingly put in finger quotes in the right place.  “That’s like a walking cliché.  Why is it never the deaf woman?  Or the mute man?”

 

“She will hear you, Rodney.”  Teyla was reproving.

 

“Oh, please.  She didn’t wait for us.  She’s somewhere up ahead.”

 

He jumped when Sica appeared at his elbow. 

 

“Smartest man in two galaxies,” she said.  “More like biggest mouth.”  She held up the iPod with the ear buds dangling.  “Tell me, what is a p-p-poker face?”

 

“I’ll explain later,” Rodney snapped, embarrassed into rudeness.  “How much farther is it?  I didn’t know we were going to the Mountains of Gondor today.”

 

Mushroom Man looked at Rodney with a quizzical expression and John just knew he was going to say _‘I have not heard of the Mountains of Gondor. Of what do you speak?’_ , only Sica replaced the iPod in her pocket and continued speaking.  “Not much farther now.  You are fortunate I understand you better than you understand yourself, Dr. McKay.  Come with me.”

 

“Now what’s _that_ supposed to mean?” Rodney asked of her retreating back.

 

In the end, they had to abandon the stretcher and manhandle John along a narrow corridor between two chambers.  Rodney sighed in exasperation.  Mushroom Man had a hard time holding the fungus and dragging John simultaneously.  Rodney pulled out a small LED flashlight, holding it in his teeth while they moved slowly in the cold velvet darkness.  Which had the added benefit of keeping Rodney quiet.

 

“You’re drooling on me,” John felt obligated to point out, forcing Rodney to wipe hastily at his mouth and transfer the flashlight to his other hand.  The darkness of the cavern was so deep that the light from the flash was swallowed up by it—only a small area in front of them was visible.  John didn’t want to think of all the creepy-crawlies that were probably waiting in the blackness.  Probably weird, eyeless creatures with fangs that glowed in the dark. 

 

Once the passage opened up again, Mushroom Man went around the chamber touching several large crystals jutting out of the wall.  Slowly, the room was illuminated with a soft glow as the crystals lit from within, as though dawn were breaking over the horizon.

 

“Ugh.  What’s that smell?”  Rodney pocketed his flashlight and pulled his sleeve over his nose and mouth.

 

“I believe it is coming from the mud pits,” Teyla said.  She indicated the gleaming surface of mud now slowly becoming visible in the increasing light, the surface periodically bubbling up to release noxious gas.

 

“What?”  Rodney looked around in a panic.  “For heaven’s sake, nobody light a match.  Not only could the resulting sulfur dioxide kill us, but this whole place could explode in a ball of fire.”

 

“Please don’t throw me in the tar pit, Br’er Fox,” John said, feeling the urge to laugh. 

 

Sica did laugh.  “That is precisely what we are going to do, John Sheppard. But then you know that, don’t you?”

 

“I don’t get it,” Rodney complained.  “You guys aren’t making any sense—what am I missing?”

 

“I will explain it later,” Teyla repeated Rodney’s words back at him, and John could just make out a hint of a smile. 

 

“Wait.  You’re going to immerse John—the Colonel—in _mud_?  That’s it?  That’s the sum total of your treatment?”  To Teyla he said, “I got the Tar Baby reference, Teyla, I do read, you know.  It’s the _why_ that doesn’t make any sense to me.” 

 

“I’m guessing the mud has healing properties, McKay, yadda, yadda.  Can we get on with this?”  _And now we’re back to incensed again._ John plucked fretfully at the collar of his T-shirt, which was ringed with sweat. 

 

They began to undress him.  Teyla, Rodney, Mushroom Man, and Other Guy.  John wondered if he was going to be around long enough to name Other Guy.  He tried, but he couldn’t come up with anything more descriptive than ‘Other Guy.”  He must be losing his touch.  Rodney was uncharacteristically silent, except for the occasional directions, such as “Lift him up” and “Take the boots off first.”

 

John was startled to see that his hands were grossly swollen, his fingers like strange sausages.  The red, angry welts were moving up his arms and he was losing the feeling in them.  He couldn’t even muster up the energy to feel embarrassed that they were handling him as though he were a baby, to be undressed, wiped, fed, and put to bed.

 

When they lowered him into the warm, bubbling mud, he cried out.  Rodney’s fingers tightened on his arm and he gasped, “It’s okay, Rodney, put me in the pit.  It feels better, I swear.”  After the initial shock of having anything touch his sensitized skin, the mud _did_ make it feel better.

 

His body sank under the surface of the mud until only his head remained above.  It was an effort to keep sinking completely within the mud pit—there really wasn’t anything to brace against, and his arms and legs weren’t working right anyway.  He closed his eyes and concentrated on not drowning, the warmth of the mud a welcome relief after the chill of the cavern, soothing away the stinging of his flesh.  He could tell he was in danger of losing consciousness again, when he felt the surface of the mud undulate toward him, and he opened his eyes to catch a glimpse of a very naked Rodney sliding into the mud beside him.

 

“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked, when Rodney sort of dogpaddled his way over to him.  Rodney insinuated himself behind John and the edge of the pit, and suddenly it was easier to keep his head up.

 

“Lean back against me.  Sleep if you need to.  I have a feeling we might be here a while.  I can’t believe I’m doing this, by the way.  This stuff reeks.”

 

“I’m sure it will be very good for your pores,” John murmured.

 

“That’s right, mock the man who just climbed into the Bog of Eternal Stench on your behalf.”

 

John laughed then, and felt Rodney slip an arm around his chest to keep him from going under the surface.  He was conscious of touching more of Rodney in slick, slippery ways than he’d ever allowed himself to think of before, but the only thing that registered was that he could rest now.  Rodney’s other arm wrapped around him to hold him in place between Rodney’s spread thighs, and John closed his eyes and sighed.

 

****

 

When he awoke, he was lying on one of the small beds favored by the Lanteans, though he didn’t seem to be in his room, which was odd.  He was definitely in the city, however; he recognized the almost subliminal hum in his mind.  It had a faintly questioning note that also struck him as strange.  _What the heck was going on?_

When he tossed back the sheets, he was surprised to find that he was naked.  He hadn’t slept in the buff since he’d joined the military, except on the rare vacation.  He wasn’t wearing any dog tags either, and that made the hair on the back of his neck prickle.  Something wasn’t right here, and with that realization, it was as though he felt a ripple of hostility emanating from the city.  He hastily drew on a pair of boxers he picked up off the floor and a threadbare T-shirt that had been tossed at the nearest chair.  As he pulled the shirt on over his head, he noted the round softness of his belly just starting to pooch out a bit over the waistband of the boxers.  He poked at it experimentally.  When the hell had he gained so much weight?

 

There were no mirrors in the room.  There were no windows either.  The room itself was without decoration, and seemed smaller than his regular quarters.  The door on the left opened into a tiny bathroom—the mirror there reflected back a face that looked at him in shock.  He stepped into the bathroom and leaned toward the mirror cautiously, touching the slight bag under his eye.  He looked… disreputable.  Dissipated.

 

He frowned at his reflection and returned to the sleeping area.  He moved with purpose for the other door.  It opened into what appeared to be a suite of rooms—somewhere down in the bowels of the city, John guessed, by the lack of any windows there as well.  The center of the room held a battered sofa and a type of coffee table, haphazardly stacked with folders, papers, and boxes—it looked as though someone was moving in.  The rich smell of fresh coffee was in the air, and John quickly spotted the standard Atlantis-adapted coffeemaker on a counter up under some cabinets, behind a freestanding work area.

 

Rodney burst out of the room on the far side of the communal area, laptop in one hand and mug of coffee in the other.  “Oh, there you are.  I’m surprised you’re up. Well, don’t stand there gaping at me like the village idiot.  We’ve got a lot of ground to cover before Ronon and Teyla take you away and beat you up for a while.”

 

He went over to the coffee table and shoved things aside until he could set down the laptop and mug without catastrophe.  Without looking up, he booted up the laptop and began scrolling through something on the screen.

 

John felt as though he had plenty of reason to gape.  If he had put on weight (well, not really, more like gotten _soft_ ), then Rodney had lost weight.  In fact, he looked much as he’d done in the first year of the expedition, before the long hours and eating crappy food in order to stay awake had started Rodney’s creeping weight gain.  Rodney dealt with chronic stress through eating, so it was with surprise that John noted Rodney’s clothes appeared a little too loose on him.  A sudden, terrible thought leapt to mind.

 

“Are you sick?” he blurted out.

 

Rodney looked up then, his expression sharp, suspicious.  “What?  Whatever gave you that idea?”

 

John shrugged, feeling suddenly foolish.  There were lots of questions he could ask—starting with what happened after they’d taken the mud bath together—but something cautioned him to stay silent on that subject.  All of his senses were on high alert, despite the fact he felt like he was recovering from a three-day binge. 

 

“You’ve lost weight,” he said, when Rodney continued to level a narrow-eyed glare at him.

 

Rodney’s thin lips tightened and he went back to studying the laptop.  “I’ve been under a lot of stress.  I don’t eat when I’m stressed.  Now, I’ve been going back through all of our missions reports, and I—”

 

John interrupted him with a honking snort.  “You don’t eat when you’re stressed?  Rodney, you eat all the time when you’re stressed.  We make fun of it.”

 

Rodney got very still, and something in his intensity registered uneasily with John.

 

“We?” he asked a bit too casually.

 

“Ronon, Teyla, and me.  We can always tell how your day has gone by what you put on your plate.”

 

A sudden look of calm understanding passed over Rodney’s features.  “Ah, Radek must have told you that.  Good, very good, Major.”  He grimaced and smacked his forehead.  “Obviously, I’m going to have to come up with something else to call you.  No one will believe that I’m still mixing up your rank after all this time.”  He studied John with an air of approving appraisal.  “I knew you’d be a quick study.  I just didn’t think it would catch me off guard like that.  Well, we _are_ grooming you to step into the Colonel’s shoes.  It would be odd if you _weren’t_ right for the part.  For your information, you’re only partially correct.  It’s true, when I get moderately stressed, I eat more.  When I get really stressed, however, I stop eating altogether.”  His expression coolly dared John to make something of that.

 

John frowned.  This conversation wasn’t making any sense at all.  He must be still feeling the effects of the plant toxin.  Still, that part of him that always watched from the back of his mind and spoke only when it had something important to say, warned him to play along.  “I, um, thought I usually brought you something to eat when you were stuck down in the labs and couldn’t get away for lunch.”

 

A look of pain flared so briefly across Rodney’s face that John almost thought for a moment that he’d imagined it.  Then Rodney swallowed hard and shook his head with a bitter-sounding laugh.  “Well,” he said mostly to himself, “I set myself up for this, didn’t I?”

 

Rodney lifted his chin; his next words were clearly directed to John.  “This is good, you getting into the role like this.  Yes, you _should_ be thinking of yourself as Lt. Colonel John Sheppard—it’s the only way the substitution will work.  But, just so you know, there’s been no one to bring me any food for a while and I… I guess I just lost my appetite.”

 

“Wait a second.” John tipped his palms up in a gesture of utter confusion.  Rodney _lost his appetite?_  “Are you trying to tell me I’m _dead_?”

 

Rodney briefly pinched the bridge of his nose before glaring at him.  “Maybe Ronon is right and you _do_ need a couple of weeks to dry out.”

 

The door chime sounded, and Rodney jumped up with alacrity, motioning John to get out of sight while he went to the door. 

 

John ignored him.  He grinned when Rodney open the door to admit Ronon and Teyla—now maybe something would start to make sense.  He felt his grin fade when he saw the burning hostility with which Ronon stared at him and the sense of worry emanating off Teyla.

 

“Get dressed,” Ronon said abruptly.  “You’re late for your workout.”

 

 _This is not your team._   The realization hit him with the force of a sledgehammer between the eyes and he sucked in his breath sharply.

 

“What is it, JohnSheppard?” Teyla, astute as ever, noted his reaction.

 

Even if they weren’t his team, he still knew these people.  He could trust them.  He could explain.  “Um, I’m not the guy you think I am.  I’m from another universe, see?”

 

“Yes, yes, we _know_.”  Rodney slammed shut the laptop with the kind of force that would have gotten anyone else in trouble.  “We went through the Quantum mirror and brought you here.  You’ve got the Colonel’s look of dumb confusion down pat—can we please move on now?  We’ve got a lot of material to cover and not much time to do it in.”

 

Teyla continued to watch John’s face.  “Perhaps,” she suggested, “we should all eat breakfast and then you, Rodney, can lay out a plan of action that we can all follow in the coming weeks.  I’m sure JohnSheppard is feeling somewhat disoriented.  Surely we have time for some food?”

 

Rodney rolled his eyes.  “Very well.  One of you rustle up something to eat.  I’ll lay out a schedule of who gets him when for training.  Since I need to be in the labs part of the day, it only makes sense that I get him for the night shift.”

 

“Not too much food,” Ronon said, looking pointedly at John’s gut.

 

“Can we forget about the goddamned food for just a minute?” John snapped.  “I’m trying to say something here.”

 

Everyone looked at him expectantly.  Rodney with frowning impatience.  Ronon with sneering hostility.  Teyla with her look of bland patience, the one she reserved for when someone in the expedition was being particularly stupid and ignoring the advice of a Pegasus native.  John became aware that he was wearing very little in the way of clothing and it suddenly embarrassed him.

 

“Oh, forget it,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand.

 

Teyla turned to Rodney, though she continued to watch John out of the corner of her eye.  “I will bring some supplies down here a little at a time,” she suggested.  “Someone might notice if Ronon or I continue to bring large trays of food out of the mess hall.”

 

“Not Ronon,” John said.  “No one looks twice at his tray.”

 

It was eerie, having everyone stare at him at the same time with varying degrees of unease.  _I must be freaking them out_.

 

“Fine, fine, whatever,” Rodney said, snapping out of his expression of creeped-out deja-vu.  “I don’t really care either way.”

 

“Yes you do, Rodney,” John said.  “You’re going to leave the food gathering up to Teyla?  That means everything will be good for us.  You know how you feel about yogurt: you think it’s milk that should have been thrown away.”  To Teyla, he said, “The least you can do is include a few pudding cups or some muffins.”  He tipped his head slightly in Rodney’s direction and raised what he hoped was a subtle eyebrow.

 

The silence in the room was thunderous.

 

“I will get breakfast now,” Teyla said, after trading an intense look with Ronon.

 

Rodney’s mouth worked as though there was something he was trying not to say.  “I’m going to just… you know… get something.  Out of my room.  The room that I’m staying in for now.  Over there.”  He indicated the room that he’d come out on entering the common area of the suite.  He turned and left abruptly without another word.

 

Ronon made a face that would have been called a snarl on a dog, and headed behind the counter, where there was a sink and several cabinets—the Pegasus equivalent of a wet bar, John presumed.  Feeling reckless, he followed Ronon behind the counter.  He watched as Ronon took a mug out of one of the cabinets and helped himself to some coffee.  Rodney’s vices rubbing off, it would seem.  It occurred to him that maybe all those times he brought Rodney sugary sweets, he really wasn’t doing him any favors, and that made him feel bad somehow.  He wasn’t trying to hurt Rodney.  He’d been trying to be nice.  He felt like an idiot now.

 

Every line of Ronon’s back radiated hostility.  Never one for knowing when to keep his mouth shut, John called him on it.  “Just what have I done to piss you off so bad, big guy?”

 

Even though he’d seen it in action before, he was still unprepared by the swiftness of Ronon’s movement.  Ronon’s hand lashed out toward his face: he instinctively tried to block it, and saw something of assessment in Ronon’s eyes when he managed to deflect it at least.

 

“Don’t call me that.”

 

“Don’t call you what?” John frowned.

 

“I’m not your ‘big guy’,” Ronon said, leveling a smoldering glare at John.

 

He felt a little silly, getting in a pissing match with Ronon, dressed only in a T-shirt and boxers.  “Fine. Whatever.”  He raised his hands in a gesture of ‘pax’ and moved out of Ronon’s reach.

 

“You _will_ make this work.”  The threat in Ronon’s statement was unmistakable. 

 

John couldn’t help it.  “Or else what?”  He smiled sweetly. 

 

“I’ll kill you myself.”

 

“Rodney wants me alive,” John said without thinking, and the truth of the statement caught up with him a second later.  Another thought struck him at the same time.  _You bring Rodney food because you can’t tell him how you really feel about him._ Like the earlier realization that he wasn’t dealing with his team, this one hit him like a ton of bricks. 

 

Ronon must have caught something of his reaction, for he said nothing and took a healthy swallow of his coffee.

 

Rodney came out of his room, bursting with nervous energy.  “Right then.”  He rubbed his hands briskly together.  “If you would join me over by the couch—John—we can get started with your briefing while we wait for Teyla’s return.”

 

John watched as this thinner, unhappy version of Rodney wiped his hands along his thighs and fidgeted while waiting for John’s response.  He took pity on Rodney and drawled, “Sure.  Why not?”

 

****

 

This time when he awoke, he was lying on a sofa.  Not, however, the sofa from the suite of rooms in Atlantis.  This one was that horrible avocado green so popular for kitchen appliances in the seventies, and sagged in the middle as though one of the supports was broken.  The top of the backrest was so heavily layered in cat hair that the fur almost appeared to be woven into the fabric.  On the wall, over a poster of Indiana Jones cracking his whip from _Raiders of the Lost Ark_ , a clock ticked loudly. 

 

He lay blinking at the clock for a moment, trying to remember the last time he’d seen a clock with actual hands.  One thing he knew for certain; this time he wasn’t in Pegasus.  He lifted his head cautiously to look around the room.  It was empty, with the air of an abandoned dorm room right before midterms.  There were papers scattered everywhere—computer printouts from the looks of them.  John recognized Rodney’s spiky, insistent handwriting on the piece of paper closest to him, and from the handwritten equations and graphs taped all over the walls, John knew he was working on something important.

 

Across from the couch sat a cumbersome nineteen inch television—old style—not the flat screen John would have expected.  On the console beneath it, a newish looking DVD player sat stacked on an old VCR.  On the coffee table in front of the sofa, John saw several video tapes, as well as a DVD copy of _Galaxy Quest_ and Season 3 of some show he’d never heard of called _Due South_.

 

He tossed back the covers to discover he was wearing Rodney’s “I’m with Genius” T-shirt and some baggy sweats.  The room was cold and he was grateful for the carpet under his bare feet as he made his way into the small kitchen area.  There were Christmas lights around all the windows, currently turned off.  Outside, the world looked gray and unforgiving, as though winter weather was on the way.

 

He automatically began making coffee; going through the motions because it was something he knew how to do.  The last thing he remembered from before was getting pounded in a ‘training’ session with Ronon in a universe where none of his friends seemed to like him very much.  It had been depressing, and he couldn’t help but mess with their minds a bit, showing that he knew more about them than he should have known.  He might have guessed that would cause Ronon to cold cock him at some point.

 

Which caused him to wind up here.

 

He poked around in the cabinets, taking note of the forty-seven cans of cat food and the absence of any cat demanding breakfast of the first vertical human it saw.  In the dish drainer sat an upside down combination water/food dish.  This struck John as inexplicably sad somehow.  In the refrigerator were the remnants of a pre-cut bagged salad and some leftover lasagna in a Pyrex dish.  He was starting to think about microwaving some of the lasagna when the coffee started filling the pot.

 

The door to the bedroom burst open and Rodney came stumbling out.  He headed for the coffee like a dying man in the desert spying a watering hole.  He pushed past John without seeming to notice, taking a single mug out of the cabinet and setting it down, and then pressing his forehead along folded arms on the counter as he waited for the coffee to finish dripping.  John noted that instead of the usual ‘idiot’ type slogan, Rodney’s mug said, ‘I’ll start working when my coffee does.’

 

“Bathroom’s all yours,” Rodney said, his voice muffled by his arms.  “God, I can’t believe I slept so late.  Fortunately, the museum doesn’t open before ten—we can’t expect to get in to see Dr. Jackson before then anyway.  Always provided he’s coming in this close to the holidays.  I’m betting with the Ra exhibit in town, he is, though.”  He straightened, stretching his back and shoulders with an unpleasant popping sound, before fixing his classic worried stare on John.  “I’m hoping we’re going to find the power source we need.  It seems unlikely we’ll find anything else on Earth that can generate the kind of power we’re talking about here, so, you know, I don’t want you to get your hopes up or anything.  I mean, I think there’s a good chance based on what we saw last night.  I just can’t make any promises.”

 

 _Holy shit_.  If he’d thought the Rodney of the last universe was down a bit in weight, this Rodney was positively _skinny_.  He was thin in a way John had not seen since photos of Rodney’s graduate student days, with overly long hair that just emphasized that it was thinning and receding.  He was wearing a brown T-shirt that said ‘My reality check is in the mail’ and tatty blue-striped boxers.  His feet and hands seemed huge compared to the rest of him and his nose looked sharp enough to slice bread.  He had an air of ‘unsuccessful loser’ about him that sent a little spurt of anger through John. 

 

“You need a haircut,” John said, surprised at how mad he sounded.

 

Rodney’s eyes clouded over, like the sea with a storm rolling in.  “Really?  Seriously?  Don’t you think we’ve got bigger fish to fry?  We’re standing here on the brink of determining whether or not it’s possible to send you back to your proper universe and all you can say is I need a haircut?  Well, gee, thanks, Colonel SexyHair, but some of us have different priorities, you know.”  Rodney was red-faced with defensive anger now, folding his arms stiffly across his chest, the gesture so familiar that something in John broke just a little.  “I can’t help it if I’m losing my hair.  What difference does it make to you anyway?”

 

Rodney fired his words at John as though they were artillery shells.  John got the sense there was more to this conversation than he was privy to.  He couldn’t help notice that Rodney had a pretty good hard-on underneath those thin boxers and the acknowledgement of that fact made his own cock lift and start to fill.  _Shit_.

 

John waved in the direction of Rodney’s head.  “No, you can’t help it.  So, stop trying to compensate by letting it be longer everywhere else.  It just makes you look like a loser and you’re not a loser, Rodney.  You’re the smartest man I know.  Look the part.”

 

Rodney blinked at him a few times before a crooked smile slowly developed.  “That’s the second time you’ve told me I’m the smartest man you know.  You really mean that, don’t you?”

 

 _You never acknowledge Rodney’s brilliance to his face_.  He replayed in his mind the times he’d told Rodney, ‘You done good, McKay’ but never in the superlative way that Rodney deserved.  Most times, it felt as though he was just feeding Rodney’s already overblown opinion of himself to praise him for his work.  He saw in this Rodney a need for someone to acknowledge his genius.  “Yes, I do.  I don’t tell you that more often because your head is already too big to allow you through the Gate as it is.”  He heaved a sigh as though making a big concession.

 

Rodney’s expression turned speculative.  He uncrossed his arms in order to use his hands for emphasis as he spoke.  “You know, if we can’t get you back, you and I, we should really try and get the backing of some people with money to help us uncover the Stargate.”

 

In a flash, John realized why this Rodney seemed so small and diminished compared to his.  Why he seemed like he was starving.  There was no Stargate program in this universe.  John’s next words could potentially keep the lid forever closed on that particular Pandora’s Box.

 

_Can you deny Rodney the chance to be all he that he can be?_

Rodney took the decision out of his hands.  “I know what you’re thinking.  You’re thinking it would be better if we just left it buried wherever it is in the desert or under the Antarctic ice.  That’s crap and you know it.  The Goa’uld won’t leave us alone just because we’re not using the Gate.  Without a working Gate we’re just fish in a barrel and they’re the guys with depth charges.”  Rodney dropped his hands to his sides and shifted his feet a little, looking uncomfortable.  “I’ll do this without you, you know.  The information I need is all there in your McKay’s laptop.  I can understand if you’d rather not, given, you know, the night before last and all.  But the truth is, if you can’t get back home, well… the people of Earth _need_ you, Colonel.”

 

“The night before last?”  John latched on the one thing in Rodney’s monolog that had stood out for him. 

 

Rodney flushed again, though this time with embarrassment.  “Yeah.  The other night.  You know, you, me…”  Rodney pointed first at John, then at himself, and then, astonishingly, at his cock with a slight, but very suggestive movement.

 

_Whoa!_

“Um, right.  Well.  Um.”  John coughed suddenly and turned toward the cabinets, searching for a mug with which to get coffee, anything to occupy his hands and keep his back toward Rodney.

 

“No, not that one!” He heard Rodney exclaim behind him, just as he opened a cabinet he’d not explored before.  He was looking over his shoulder at Rodney when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye, and he looked up to see a thirty pound bag of cat litter tumble out of the top shelf onto his head.

 

****

 

He awoke in a bed again, this time returning to consciousness slowly, reluctantly, as though coming home from a delightful day out in the woods to a house full of arguments and slamming doors.  His chest felt heavy, as though breathing was something he had to think about, and he felt weirdly detached from the rest of his body.

 

 _The poison_.  _It’s getting worse_.

 

He had a little moment of sheer, utter panic when he realized that he could barely move.  For someone who lived his entire life in the physical world, it was like being in a straightjacket.  Instinctively he fought against the immobility, feeling the thudding acceleration of his heart when it became even harder to breathe.

 

 _Lie still_ , that quiet voice inside him urged.  _Like I have any fucking choice_ , he responded.  Still, he did as the voice suggested, and the breathing became easier again.  When his heart rate had slowed as well, he thought about trying to move once more. 

 

That was when he realized he was missing part of his right arm. 

 

He’d consciously thought about bringing his hand up to his face and felt his shoulder respond to the command.  With a little more effort, the kind that strained the muscles in his neck, he’d been able to lift his arm enough to see it that ended at the elbow in a smooth stump.  Startled, he lost control over the movement and let his arm fall back to his side.  He’d closed his eyes then, for a long time.

 

Right.  Okay, so try the other arm.

 

  
  



 

He started taking in his surroundings now, in the manner that he’d often done on waking in a Genii prison or a Wraith holding cell.  Because that’s where he was—in a prison from which there had to be some sort of escape, if only he could find it.  The walls were painted a sunny yellow—and there was a high window with a ledge, on which sat a series of green fern-like plants.  Not a hospital room, then.  More like a long-term nursing facility.  Above his bed hung a metal suspension rod, presumably for helping him sit up, though he couldn’t imagine being able to do that in his condition.  Beside the bed was a wheelchair.

 

The incipient panic threatened to come flooding back.

 

There was a tap on the door, and then it opened without waiting for his acknowledgment.  A familiar voice began speaking as the door was opening.  “You awake, Hot Shot?”

 

“Jim.”  John could barely say the name without his throat threatening to close up.  “Jim.”  He felt tears come to his eyes, and realized in a flash that crying could prove to have serious consequences.  He willed the tears to stop and pulled out a smile instead.

 

Jim Banks had aged since the last time John had seen him, though it was scarcely noticeable.  His face was more lined, his red-brown hair graying now.  His eyes were the same clear hazel, and he was as lean and wiry as ever.  He had a book tucked under one arm and he was dressed as though he’d come from the barn, in bleach splattered jeans, muddy paddock boots, and a denim shirt.  A small blue Heeler was at his side; the dog gave a sharp, happy bark on seeing John and leapt nimbly onto the bed.

 

“Toad,” Jim said sternly.  “Off.”

 

The dog had wiggled her way up to John’s hand for quick lick, being careful not to step on him.  He clumsily petted her, noting the TD tag on her collar and suspecting it stood for Therapy Dog.  She nosed him briefly before jumping down to the floor again.

 

“How else is she supposed to see me?” John asked.  “It’s not like I can get down on her level.”  It felt like he was picking up a conversation that he’d left off from just the day before—but then it always felt that way around Jim, no matter how many years had intervened.

 

“She knows better,” Jim said with a hard look at the dog, which gave him a shit-eating grin and curled around herself in an attempt to wag her little tail. 

 

“What are you doing here?” John asked, hearing the bitter resentment fill his voice and hating himself for it. 

 

Jim pulled a chair out from behind the door and brought it closer to the bed, frowning as he took his seat.  “It’s Wednesday,” he said, as though that explained everything.  Toad went over to a padded dog bed under the window that John noticed for the first time, and laid down with a sigh.  There was even a bowl of water.  This was something that happened frequently.

 

“Wednesday, Sunday, Friday.  They’re probably all the same here, aren’t they?”

 

Jim raised an eyebrow.  “I can see this is going to be one of your bad days.”  He carefully opened the book to the page identified by a bookmark, and took a pair of reading glasses out of his shirt pocket.

 

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me if you think I have any good days,” John snarled.  “I’m nothing but a goddamned _head_ , Jim.”

 

Jim briefly stared at him over the rim of his glasses, before closing the book and folding his hands over top of it.  “You are more than a head, John.  You’re a heart too, and one of the strongest ones I know at that.”  He paused to take off his glasses and re-pocket them, wiping the corner of one eye as he did so.  “I was here the day you decided to live—and that was what it was, a sheer, gritty determination to meet this battle on your own terms.  I’ve watched you fight through things that would destroy a lesser man, and do it with your sense of humor intact.  I’ve seen you turn around and give that courage to the next person who comes in the door, certain their life has been ruined and that they have nothing to live for.  So don’t tell me you’re nothing but a goddamned head.”

 

John blinked.  “Wow.  Long speech for you.”

 

“Been saving it up,” Jim drawled.  “So, why don’t you tell me what you and Rodney were up to last night?”

 

“ _What_?”

 

 “You usually tell me about the adventures you got up to with Rodney the night before.  Stories about a lost city in another galaxy, and space vampires, and how you guys go about saving the world.  Something to do with that talisman of yours.”  Jim pointed at John’s neck and waved his finger around in a small circle.

 

John automatically reached up, missed his neck entirely, and fumbled around until he felt the small medallion underneath the fabric of his T-shirt.  After several attempts at willing his fingers to grip appropriately, he pulled the disc out by its rawhide cord.  Even with his partially numb fingertips, he could feel the warm thrum of Ancient technology.

 

“I think you should write it all down in a book.  Would make a good movie,” Jim said, as John craned his head to stare at the Ancient script on the sides of the medallion.

 

He let the talisman lie on his chest.  “Adventures, eh?”  He saw himself and Rodney on some of their earlier missions, chatting up the natives, or running for their lives, as the case may be.  Remembering some of their crazy missions now, he could see where it would make a good summer blockbuster.  “So, who’d you cast as me?”

 

Jim gave him a speculative look, the kind that made John realize he was taking the question seriously.  “I’m not sure there’s anyone today that could do justice to you, Johnny-me-lad.”  Jim smiled.  “You know me, I prefer the older movies anyway.”

 

John did know.  He’d grown up watching Jim’s black and white movie collection on those treasured weekends when his folks had gone away and left him to stay with Jim.  Jim had let him stay up late, reading until all hours, and watching old films such as _Key Largo_ , and _High Noon_.  Come to think of it, that might be where he got some of his ideas about right and wrong.

 

“Doesn’t have to be from today.  If you could have your pick of anyone from any time and place, who’d it be?”  If John could move, he would have placed his arms behind his head and leaned back into his pillow.  This would be good.

 

“Harrison Ford.”  Jim spoke without hesitation.  “ _Force 10 from Navarone_.”

 

John gaped at him.  That was… flattering.  And not what he’d expected.  He wasn’t sure what he _had_ expected, but it wasn’t that.

 

“You sure you don’t see me as someone a little bit more of a wise-ass?” John quipped.

 

“Harrison Ford,” Jim said.  “ _Star Wars_.”

 

John snorted.  “Okay, since we’re casting the movie of my life, who would you be?” 

 

“Why, Gary Cooper, of course.”  Jim smiled, leaning back in his chair and stretching his legs out in front of him.

 

“You’re too good at this. Fine.  Rodney McKay.”

 

Jim brought his hand up to his chin and rubbed it.  “Well, now,” he drawled.  “I haven’t actually met the infamous Dr. McKay.  Way you tell it though, he’s a combination of brilliant scientist, a huge pain in the ass, with moments of astounding heroism.  That he’s funny, and caustic, and not cool under pressure but he always gets the job done.”

 

“Yes.”  John was stunned that Jim could sum Rodney up so well.  _You must talk about him a lot._

“I also suspect that since he’s never been here to see you, he _can’t_.”  Jim’s words fell into a little well of silence before he briskly continued.  “So if I can pick anyone I want, I think I’ll go with Bob Hope.”

 

“Bob Hope?”  Rodney could be devastatingly funny, but John didn’t think of him as a comedian. 

 

“You’re always talking about how quick he is with the snappy comeback, and how the two of you seem to stumble in to trouble.  Like with those simple farmers who turned out to have an underground weapons bunker.  You make it sound like one of the Road movies.  How even when he’s scared, he makes you laugh.”

 

John felt his lips twitch in a half smile.  Jim had a point.  Rodney even had the ski slope nose and, if he was being honest with himself, the same mighty fine ass as well.  “So what was the last thing I told you about?”

 

Jim blew his breath through his lips and raised his eyebrows.  “Well, the last time I was here, you told me about a mission that had gone wrong.”

 

“Don’t they all?” John said wryly.  _Like the one that put me here_. 

 

Jim tipped his head in acknowledgment of the truth of the statement.  “This one was worse than usual.  You and Rodney had taken a team to go exploring some satellite in outer space—went in those contraptions you call ‘jumpers’.  Only when you got there, you found something on the planet below you wanted to check out.  Elizabeth gave you the okay, but when you got down on the planet, you found this Wraith there.  Living off the bodies of his former crew and somehow thousands of years old.  You guys weren’t prepared for something like that—something about him made him hard to kill—I’m not sure what.”  Jim paused to lay the book on the nightstand beside the bed.  “Anyway, the Wraith killed two of your friends.  Two scientists.  Gaul and Abrams?  Would have gotten the two of you as well, only Lt. Ford came in the nick of time.”

 

John felt all the blood drain from his face, which was an incredibly weird sensation since it didn’t seem to go anywhere else.  “Right.  Ford,” he said.  Only they didn’t call them puddlejumpers, they were pondskippers.  He wasn’t certain who Elizabeth was, unless Jim meant Dr. Weir.  He recalled that she’d been one of the contenders for expedition leader, only something personal had caused her to drop out of the running.  And Ford.  Ford hadn’t lived that long.  He’d been culled on that very first mission to Athos, along with Colonel Sumner.  It was Dumais and Gaul that had been killed by the Super Wraith.  Rodney had been devastated.

 

One thing was for certain—the medallion had something to do with alternate realities.

 

He brought his hand up to the talisman again.  This was his escape.  His way out.  Somewhere, on the other side of this existence, another Rodney was waiting for this John, and the desire for it to be him instead surprised him. 

 

“Well,” Jim said with another nod.  “You both were upset at losing your colleagues like that.  Almost losing each other as well.  That’s the kind of event that brings two people together or tears them apart.”

 

“Together.” John recalled clearly how Rodney had blamed himself for the deaths of Dumais and Gaul—and John had blamed himself for taking them down on the planet to explore the Wraith ship in the first place.  Long journey or not, he should have ordered a squad of Marines to come in another jumper and waited for their arrival before hitting the surface.  They could have used the time exploring the satellite and then sent the scientists home when the Marines arrived.  He’d learned the hard way that as a leader, he couldn’t always take point.

 

He also remembered going to see Rodney that evening, and how close he’d come to crossing that line between friendship and something closer.  He’d felt the tension building in the air between them, like an impending storm that hadn’t yet broken.  It wouldn’t have taken much on his part to make the connection.  Rodney would have responded; he could see that now.  But he’d chickened out.

 

_So much wasted time… and now look at you._

If only he could figure out how the medallion worked.

 

“I’d like to meet this Rodney of yours someday.”

 

“You would?”  John was startled, and felt his face flush.  Jim probably thought he and Rodney were lovers.  Jim certainly had always been supportive of John’s sexuality before the final fallout with his dad.  John had deliberately put that part of his life behind him when he’d joined the Air Force.

 

Jim looked around the room, his glance taking in the sterile walls, the dust-covered objects.  When he brought his gaze back to John, there was a glimmer of pain behind his smile.  “He seems to be good for you.”

 

John realized then: Jim thought he was making up his stories about Rodney and Pegasus.  That Rodney was a figment of his imagination.  For a horrible moment, he wondered if that was true.

 

“Knock, knock!”  The perky young woman came through the door without actually knocking.  “Ah, Mr. Banks.  Hello, Toad!”  She dragged a heavy cart behind her, containing several drawers and a small computer monitor and keypad.  She bent to pat the dog, which had risen on her entrance and greeted her happily.  “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask the two of you to leave.  Mr. Sheppard is due to go into surgery now.”

 

“I am?” John was aghast.  Jim, however, seemed to be expecting his reaction.

 

“Nothing major, just trimming off a little dead tissue.  That’s what you told me the other day, anyway.”  He collected the book and clucked to the dog.  “We’ll be back later this evening.  Try not to give the nurses a hard time, Hot Shot.”  He gave John a sketchy little salute, as the nurse wiped her hands with a Sani-wipe and then put on blue protective gloves.

 

John wanted to call Jim back as he left with the dog.  _Wait.  Take me with you._

“This will help you relax,” the nurse said, after double-checking her orders.  She wiped injection port and attached the syringe to end, pushing in the plunger.  “We’ll take you down to the surgery in a few moments and give you the rest.  You’ll be back here before you know it.”

 

 _Not if I can help it_ , John thought.

 

****

 

This time he awoke in bed again.  He was conscious of a faint breeze blowing across his bare skin and he pulled the sheet up over one shoulder to protect him from the chill.  Behind him, the heat of another body was deliciously warm, and he wanted to sink back into it and sigh.  It took him a second to realize he _could_ move—and that thought brought him to full wakefulness.

 

He rolled over onto his back in relief, startled at the zing of pain that zipped up through his shoulder, but deciding that pain and movement was better than no pain and no movement.  He cautiously continued his turn over onto the other side, to face the person beside him in bed.

 

Several things struck him all in rapid succession. Based on the soft pink light coming in through the balcony doors, it was near dawn in Atlantis.  He was naked and smelled of sex.  He could only see out of one eye.  He was lying next to a naked Rodney.

 

The force of all three realizations caused him to scramble backward with force.  He rolled out of bed with a hard thump to the floor.

 

 _Fuck, that hurt_.  He lay on the floor on his back for a moment, willing the pain to go away so that he could get to his feet.  Thankfully, Rodney slept on.  _Huh_.  He’d always suspected Rodney would be a hard sleeper.  With a grunt, he rolled over on his hands and knees, using the bed to pull himself to a standing position.  His right ankle threatened to give way underneath him when he stood up and he looked down to see the scarring he associated with multiple surgeries.  _Fuck_.

 

Rodney sighed and rolled onto his other side, pulling the sheet with him as he went.  John could see now the extensive scarring of his neck and shoulder, disappearing down beneath the sheet.  He still couldn’t see out of one eye—he couldn’t even feel the movement of any eyelids.  He was reaching up to rub his face when he saw the black eye patch on the nightstand on his side of the bed.

 

 _No_.

 

He stumbled his way into the bathroom, thinking ‘on’ at the lights and sensing a momentary impression of delight from the city when he did so.  He forgot all about that when he saw his reflection in the mirror.  His left eye wasn’t just missing, it had been savagely removed at some time in the past, leaving him with a scarred, depressed socket in its place.  He wondered in a detached sort of way why he hadn’t at least gotten a prosthetic one.  Hell, even Columbo had a glass eye.

 

He leaned on his hands on the sink and breathed hard a few times, before turning on the tap and splashing cold water on his face.  He was wiping it with a towel when Rodney appeared in the doorway.

 

“Bad dream?”  Rodney asked, rubbing one eye with a heavily scarred hand.

 

The shock of seeing Rodney’s hands was by far the worse thing he’d experienced this morning.  He focused on the towel, folding it neatly and draping it over one shoulder.  When he was through, he reached out to take one Rodney’s claw-like hands into his own. Silently, he turned it palm-side up, where there appeared an imprint burned into the skin, much like the bad guy from _Raiders of the Lost Ark_ and the headpiece to the Staff of Ra. 

 

“Rodney, your _hands_.”

 

“Yes, yes, my hands.”  Rodney yawned mightily.  “My hands, your eye.  My dick, as a matter of fact, which would like to pee.  Since you woke me up anyway.  So if you don’t mind?”  Rodney withdrew his hand from John’s clasp and made a shooing motion toward the door.

 

Stupefied, John complied.  He couldn’t resist looking back over his shoulder, to sneak a glimpse of Rodney’s very fine ass before it disappeared behind the closing door.

 

“I saw you checking me out!” Rodney called out from inside the bathroom.

 

John limped slowly back to the bed and sat down on the edge.  _What the fuck had happened here?_ He discovered he still had the towel draped over his shoulder and he dropped it to the floor. 

 

Rodney came out of the bathroom a few minutes later.  “Where is the… oh, there it is.  How many times have I asked you not to leave the towels on the floor?”  He walked over to the towel and bent down to collect it, giving John a view straight down his back, revealing the extent of his damaged skin.

 

“Sorry,” John said automatically. 

 

Rodney gave him a quizzical look as he dried his hands and then left the towel draped over a nearby chair.  “I think you do it out of rebellion.  Because you’re the Major here and you can do whatever you want.”

 

“Colonel,” John corrected.

 

Rodney grinned.  “Hah!  I see you are going to accept my field promotion of you after all.  About time.”  He stood with that typical look of impish delight that somehow seemed all wrong with the scarring of his body.  John could see now where skin had been taken from his sides and legs to use as grafts on his neck—he could tell that Rodney had probably had as many surgeries as he’d had, and that they’d been about as successful. 

 

He shouldn’t look so cheerful.

 

Or as attractive. 

 

John couldn’t help noticing that Rodney was sporting some pretty impressive morning wood and he wondered what would happen if he just sank to his knees in front of Rodney right now and took that cock into his mouth.

 

John’s own cock began to fill at the thought, and Rodney’s expression turned from impish to downright sly.

 

“So,” he said, placing his hands on his hips and thrusting his pelvis forward a little.  “Since we’re both up early…”  He waggled his hips slightly, causing his cock to bounce gently.

 

The temptation to give in to this one was strong—stronger than anything John had felt the need to resist in a long time.  Rodney was inviting him, they were both naked already, they’d probably already done this before.  He wasn’t hurting anything or anyone here, right?  This was his chance, maybe his only chance, to act on his desire to be with Rodney, before it was too late.

 

He just couldn’t.  It wasn’t fair to this Rodney.

 

“Rodney,” he said slowly.  “I’m from another universe.”

 

Rodney sighed and rolled his eyes, abandoning his pseudo-sexy pose.  “Yes, yes, of course you are.  So am I.  We’ve been bouncing through universes ever since we activated the AR drive.  Seriously, this Swiss cheese memory of yours is starting to become worrisome.”

 

“Wait a minute, what?”  John blinked and tucked his chin into his body as though he was a turtle.  “What AR drive?  And you mean to tell me that you’ve known about the other universes all along?  Thanks, buddy, I thought I was going insane.”

 

Rodney frowned before pushing past him to crawl back into bed, flipping down the covers so he could get under them again.  “Okay, really scary talk now.”

 

“You want to talk scary—I thought I was _hallucinating_.  I thought any minute now I’d walk up to find that I’d never left the mud pit and that I was dying from being bitten by a rabid plant.”

 

Rodney rolled up on his side, propping his chin with one hand.  “I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.  Maybe you should go see Carson today.  Are you sure you aren’t just having another one of your bad dreams?”  He reached out to touch John on the back, triggering a little shudder of response in him with the contact, and causing him to arch into it.

 

Rodney rubbed his back slowly.  John realized to pull away now might make Rodney think he couldn’t bear to be touched by his damaged hands—and nothing was further from the truth.  He sat still, fighting the urge to bolt as well as the urge to give into the gentle stroking.

 

“Look,” Rodney said.  John turned his head to look over his shoulder at him, wincing, and shifting a hip on the bed so he could see Rodney without the sharp pain knifing between his shoulders.

 

Rodney’s expression became rueful—and just a little insecure.  John could tell by the little furrow that developed between his eyes and the way his mouth pulled down at the corners.  “I know that most days… I’m not running on all cylinders anymore.”  He paused to point at his head.

 

_Dear god, what was he saying?_

“I also know you’re some sort of emotional cripple.”  In a flash, Rodney’s face had morphed into one of teasing glee.  It changed back to serious again when he continued speaking.  “I also know that as emotionally stunted as you are, you always have my back.  There’s never any doubt on my part about that, okay?  I don’t need to hear that from you.”  Rodney paused, his forehead crinkling in concern.  “Um, what did you say your name was again?”

 

“Rodney!”

 

“Really?  How strange.  That’s my name too.”  He grinned, in that mischievous way that only Rodney could do.  “Relax.  I’m just teasing.  I know who you are, Arthur.”

 

John twisted around and pushed him on the shoulder, not caring that the movement hurt.  Grinning, Rodney pushed him back, his hand coming to rest on John’s thigh. 

 

 _Oh god_.  With every fiber of his being, he wanted Rodney to touch him some more.  He wanted this.  He wanted to join Rodney in bed and fold himself around Rodney’s body.  He wanted to push up against him, to melt flesh into flesh.  To kiss that crooked mouth, to push his tongue within and take Rodney’s heat inside him.  To let himself be opened up under Rodney’s touch.  He felt his asshole clench at the idea and he knew in another moment, he would give in.

 

He stood up abruptly instead.  His ankle, protesting at the pivoting movement, gave out with a sharp protest of pain, and John went down, striking his head on the table.  The contact exploded on the side of his head in bright sparks—and then nothing.

 

**** 

 

At least the bed he woke up in this time was actually large enough for him to sleep in comfortably.  The thing was fucking enormous—the whole team could sleep in this bed together.  Even Ronon would fit.  John pushed aside the image of his entire team piling together in bed like a litter of puppies.  It was just a weird thought that came to him from time to time when he felt like he needed comforting.  Which certainly didn’t apply now.

 

He was in the lap of luxury here.

 

He was in a hotel room—and from the looks of it, a very expensive one at that.  The sheets had that crisp, clean feel that only a high thread count and an excellent housekeeping service could provide.  The room looked like a luxury suite.  Through the open door, he could see a sitting area, complete with couches and what looked like a bar.

 

When he threw back the covers, he saw that he was wearing a white T-shirt and blue-striped boxers—which also looked freshly pressed, as though they’d just come out of he packaging.  He rolled out of bed onto his feet, yawning widely as he brought his fists up even with his shoulders and stretched. 

 

He felt amazing.  Nothing hurt at all—not even the twinge of pain he sometimes felt in his left knee that he wasn’t mentioning to Carson at all.  He suspected Doc Fraiser would be harder to fool or, at the very least, less tolerate of his continuing to try and hide it.  Not even that touch of arthritis pain in his hand, probably from delivering one too many right hooks to stone-jawed prison guards.  He felt like he could climb a mountain or go skiing.   _Hah_.  Obviously, this was the best universe yet.

 

Still yawning, conscious of having slept really well, and thinking seriously about checking out his room service options, he went into the bathroom, grinning at the opulence as he used the facilities.

 

His grin faded a bit when he saw his face in the mirror.  At least he had both eyes this time, which was a plus, but there was something in the face that looked back at him that looked as though he’d seen too much and wished he could undo it.  No dog tags again, and he felt inexplicably naked without them. 

 

He flipped his reflection the bird.

 

He showered and shaved, noting that his kit seemed supplied with all his favorite products, only they, too, were barely used.  There was even a little bar of soap snagged from another hotel—one he’d always liked and could never find anywhere else.  He’d cheerfully lathered up with it, the odor bringing back fond memories of that high school trip and the things he’d done in the shower that weekend.

 

He came out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist, dripping water from his hair.  There was a suitcase on a stand near the window—he went over to investigate.  The case was mostly empty—it appeared that someone had put his things away.  About the only thing still in the suitcase was a plastic bag.  Inside was a dusty, tattered linen jacket.  He removed the dark grey material out of the bag, wondering why anyone would keep such a thing, when he noticed the bullet holes.  And the bloodstains. 

 

 _Creepy_.

 

He stuffed the jacket back in the bag and looked out the window.  City skyline.  A major metropolis.  He recognized the distinctive shape of the Stratosphere at the other end of the strip.  So, Vegas then. 

 

The noise of someone entering the suite through an electronic keypad caught his attention and he came to the door of the bedroom. 

 

As expected, Rodney came into the room.  This whole bouncing between universes thing was getting easier.  _Piece of cake_.

 

“Good.  You’re up.  I was afraid I’d have to wake you.  I can’t tell you how relieved I am that I don’t have to drag you bodily into the shower and turn the cold water on.”  He spoke in an odd, clipped sort of way that sounded more Canadian than usual.  Without the friendly part.  _Jeez, who pissed in his Wheaties_?

 

Rodney came over to the elegant, brocaded couch and tossed a black duffle onto the polished table in front of it.  Underneath one arm, he retained a black leather portfolio case.  He was dressed in a crisp, dark blue suit, with a plum-colored shirt that was probably called something like ‘mauve’.  The tie he wore with it was understated, without decoration, of a slightly lighter color than the suit.  His hair was actually parted and combed to one side, instead of its usual, short, fuzzy cut.  The cut John had always assumed was meant, no doubt to minimize his receding hairline.  “I see you managed to restrain yourself at the bar after all.  Good for you.  I’d have thought since the President was footing the bill, you’d indulge yourself.”

 

He indicated the empty glass on the counter, and the mostly full bottle of eighteen-year-old Glenmorangie on the counter.  “You know,” Rodney said, “once you opened it, the entire bottle must be paid for.  That probably costs at least £85 a bottle.  That’s one hundred and forty dollars to you and me.  You could have indulged yourself.  I’m surprised you didn’t.”

 

“One hundred thirty nine dollars and forty two cents, to be exact,” John drawled.  “But who’s counting?” 

 

Rodney laughed, but it wasn’t a very pleasant sound.  He sounded almost as if he’d expected the response, as though John had passed some sort of test by doing so.  John wondered why the president of anything would be paying his bills, but said nothing.  He eyed the single malt however.  Would be a damn shame if he couldn’t figure out how to bring it with him on the next universe exchange.   

 

This was Rodney as John had never seen him before, his arrogance polished to a supercilious edge, without hint of any the characteristics that made Rodney likeable anyway.

 

He was unbelievably hot.

 

Conscious that he should be getting dressed before he embarrassed himself, John was loathe to leave the room.  Somehow, it would feel like a retreat.  “What’s in the bag?”

 

Rodney raised an eyebrow.  “Some things you might need.  I took you at your word that there was nothing left in your apartment that you wanted.  Detective John Sheppard has officially been declared dead—it’s useful having someone you can trust working inside the coroner’s department.”  He took the leather binder out from under his arm and opened it.  “I have documents here for your new identity.  You will, of course, remain as John Sheppard within the SGC.  We’re reinstalling your rank, as a matter of fact.  But when traveling outside the confines of the SGC, you are now Joseph Dunnigan.  Here are your passport, credit cards, and driver’s license.” He shut the folder again with a snap, placing it on the table beside the duffle.  “Your outstanding debts have been paid as well.”

 

“Why bother, if I’m supposedly dead?”  John leaned in the doorway and crossed his feet at the ankle, folding his arms over his still-damp chest as well.  _Detective, eh_?  John had sometimes wondered what he’d do if he ever survived his stint in the military.  Law enforcement seemed like a natural fit.   

 

“Believe me, I argued against it, as well as giving you any significant cash now.  Beyond, that is, the four hundred and fifty-seven thousand dollars and sixty-two cents you already extracted out of the national debt.  Such a precise accounting of your self-worth.  I have to admire that.  Anyway, I was overruled.  It seems the President feels that the guy who saved the Earth should be given cart blanche to do whatever he wants.  I certainly hope you won’t disappoint us.”

 

John frowned.  “You’re talking president as in POTUS? _That_ President?”

 

“Well, I certainly don’t mean the president of SyFy.”

 

That didn’t help him any.  John had no idea what a Siffy was.  He straightened out of his lean.

 

Rodney gave him a cool, assessing stare.  “You shaved.  I thought you were in to maintaining the Sonny Crocket look.”

 

John snorted.  “You’re showing your age, Rodney.  You’ll be referencing Starsky and Hutch next.”

 

Rodney gave him a sort of strange, heavy lidded stare. “You’d better get dressed.  We’ve got a lot to do this morning.”

 

“I hear that a lot,” John grumbled, turning back into the bedroom.

 

He went over to the dresser in front of the bed, glancing in the mirror as he did so.  Shaved, he certainly looked less like a deadbeat and more like his usual self.  He rummaged around in the drawers, surprised to find only briefs in the underwear drawer.  He was tempted to go back into the bathroom and rescue the boxers that he’d been wearing.  With a shrug, he dropped the towel and stepped into a pair maroon briefs, noting how clearly they showed off his package.  Not the sort of thing he usually wore. 

 

It was going to be too damn hot in Vegas for a T-shirt.  He opened the closet and poked around at the clothing hanging there.  More suits in monochrome, similar to what Rodney was wearing, and yet less Men in Black and more suited to his own personal tastes.  They also looked brand new, and he suspected they’d fit perfectly.

 

When he turned away from the closet, a pale blue Oxford cloth shirt in one hand, and a charcoal linen jacket in the other, he found Rodney standing behind him, leveling a gun at his chest.

 

“Whoa!” he said, holding out his hands with the clothing suspended to each side.

 

“Who the hell are you?  And don’t tell me ‘John Sheppard’ because I _know_ him and you’re not him.”

 

John’s dick lifted up at the sight of Rodney competently and seriously drawing a bead on him.  _What the fuck?_ He dared not move, but his cock was filling and jutting out of the tight confines of the briefs just the same. _Damn, that’s hot._

“Rodney?” he asked uncertainly.

 

“See, that’s just it,” Rodney smiled in that not-very-friendly way.  “Sheppard wouldn’t call me that.  We barely know each other.  Or rather, I know all about him, but he knows nothing of me.  And we’re not on a first name basis.”

 

“I want to skip ahead on the social protocol and you want to shoot me?  I bet you guys have a high employee turnover rate.” 

 

A small look of doubt passed over Rodney’s features like a solar flare—there and gone again.  His expression hardened and he strode forward, pointing the gun at John until the very last second.  John had just enough time to drop the clothing and was preparing to disarm Rodney, only Rodney shifted his aim so that the gun was pointed at the ceiling as his hand slapped the gun flat against the wall.  With his other hand, he grabbed John by the back of the head and pulled him in for a kiss.

 

And what a kiss it was.  He pressed in with full body contact, his gun hand next to John’s ear as he slammed John back against the closet door.  Whatever defense John had been planning to mount crumpled with the contact of Rodney’s body against his own.  Rodney’s lips were hot and demanding on his mouth, and he opened willingly, drinking him in even as unconsciously he began to grind his pelvis up against Rodney.  There was fumbling, and then the dropping of the gun to the floor, so that Rodney could reach around and grab John by the ass, pulling him in even closer. 

 

 _Yes!_   This was what he wanted, what he’d wanted for years.  If Rodney had said he was going to pull John’s briefs down and fuck him into the middle of next week, John would have bent over the dresser and spread his ass cheeks.  John began a litany in his head of ‘don’t stop, don’t stop’ when suddenly Rodney pulled back.

 

“Who _are_ you?” Rodney asked in all seriousness, his eyes overcast like the sea on a cloudy day. 

 

“I’m from another universe,” John admitted.  His dick was so hard now and leaking, too.  He’d have said anything, if it would keep Rodney in contact with him.

 

Rodney’s expression became triumphant.  “I knew it!  I knew that you weren’t the right Sheppard.  I know him inside and out.  And this is _not_ him.”

 

He levered himself off John as though John was a leper.  John was amazed at his self-control and just a little bit envious of it too.

 

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that, McKay.” John said hoarsely.  “Reading a file is not the same thing as knowing the man.  No matter how obsessed you’ve become with him.”

 

“Obsessed!  I’m not obsessed.  Where did you get such an idea?”

 

John looked pointedly down at the gun on the floor.  Keeping an eye on him, Rodney knelt to pick it up.  To John’s relief, he put the safety on and laid it on the dresser.

 

“How’d you know?”  John asked, conscious of his obvious hard-on and the wet spot on the front of the briefs.  “That I wasn’t the right Sheppard, I mean.”

 

“You’re not broken,” Rodney said.  They locked gazes for a long moment.

 

“If I saved the world in this universe, Rodney,” John said slowly, “then there’s nothing wrong with me that can’t eventually be fixed.  Trust me on this one.”  _You can fix anything.  You’re a genius._

Rodney grunted.  “There’s still the problem of what to do with you.  I presume you’re the leader of a team somewhere?  On Earth, like us?”

 

John shook his head. “In Pegasus.”

 

“Really.”  Rodney’s eyes took on a speculative gleam.  “I’d like to hear more about that.”

 

John bent down to pick up the dropped clothing.  “Don’t know that there’s all that much to tell.  Where do you want me to start?”

 

He never even saw the blow Rodney landed on the back of his head.

 

****

 

He awoke to the smell of the mud, the noxious odor burning his nostrils and making him snort and thrash about in an effort to avoid it. 

 

“Careful now, Colonel,” Janet Fraiser’s voice was calm but firm.  “You’re going to be fine. Carson, he’s coming around,” she called out over her shoulder.

 

They were in a skipper, and John had a blanket wrapped around him, his skin coated in drying, caked-on mud.  He was lying on one of the benches in the rear compartment.  His gaze searched for Rodney and he was relieved when he saw Rodney perched unhappily on the opposite side of the skipper, covered up to his collarbone in thick layer of cracking, dried mud.  He was wearing one of the medical sheets toga-style and John wanted to call him ‘Senator.’

 

Carson came over to John’s side, grumbling about how he couldn’t find a clean spot on him to give him any injections. 

 

“I got a catheter in his left arm,” Dr. Fraiser said, causing John to tuck his chin so he could glance down at the arm in question. 

 

“Really?”  Carson looked pleased.  “I’m impressed.  Now then, Colonel.  We’ve had a chance to analyze the toxin and it appears to have many properties in common with cobra venom, with the additional histaminic effects of some varieties of stinging nettle.  Really, the combination of neuro and cardiotoxic effects, plus the ability to induce anaphylaxis, is really quite lovely when you think about it—all bound up in one species that is.”  Carson was wearing blue latex gloves.  He swabbed at the port on the catheter attached to John’s arm with an alcohol wipe, and then held up a syringe, tapping the bubbles out of the chamber and injecting them into the air with a tiny spray of fluid.

  
”Careful, doc,” John said through lips dry with caked-on mud.  “You’re starting to sound like Parrish.”

 

Carson smiled as he administered the injection.  “I have no doubt Dr. Parrish will be beside himself once we’re given permission to come back to Belspar and study the vegetation here.  I’m interested myself—the healer, Sica, says they have a plant that sounds like it might have antiviral properties.”

 

“Wraith first, common cold later.”  John closed his eyes.  He was still having a hard time breathing.  The pain, at least, was subdued to a dull roar.

 

“Not that I’m refuting the need to concentrate on the Wraith shielding properties first,” Rodney said, never one to be left out of a conversation.  “But I have just one word for you. Ebola.  And that’s on _Earth_.  Think of what Pegasus could toss at us.”

 

John didn’t want to, thank you very much.

 

“Nothing that says they can’t be worked on at the same time by different people.”  John drifted with his eyes closed and let Dr. Fraiser’s mild words soak in behind them.  He could just tell that Janet Fraiser and Teyla were going to be good friends.  They would probably hang out in Sam’s office and the three of them would discuss the men of the expedition.  Tough, beautiful, brainy women.  Probably Rodney’s idea of a wet dream.

 

 _I wouldn’t be so sure about that_ , his brain suggested.  _Have you learned nothing?_

 

The weird thing was, his brain seemed to have spoken with Sica’s voice.

 

“The point is,” Rodney said, in that ringing, cutting way of his, “that cobra antivenin is the cure.  Right, Carson?  That’s what you said, isn’t it?”  The doubt and worry snuck in at the tail end of his speech.  John opened his eyes to make sure Rodney was really okay. 

“Aye,” Carson’s brogue was soothing, and John suspected he got more Scottish on purpose at such times.  “That it is, Rodney.  It’s not a perfect match, but it will mitigate the effects of the neurotoxin until it wears off.  The mud prevented further absorption through the skin, acting even like a sort of poultice to draw it out.” 

 

Dr. Fraiser turned an interested expression toward John.  “Did you know that it takes less that thirty percent of your diaphragm to be paralyzed to result in death?  You were very fortunate, Colonel, to have experienced help at hand.”

 

“Oh, now this, this is the bedside manner every doctor will want to emulate,” Rodney snapped, pausing in his process of flaking off giant sections of mud from his body.  “Don’t quote percentages at him, Dr. Fraiser; it just makes him more reckless the next time.”

 

Dr. Fraiser shared a small look with John that seemed a combination of amusement and as though she was thinking about the right way to manage Rodney.  She lifted her head and spoke directly to Rodney.  “I merely wanted to point out how fortuitous it was that you administered the epi-pens when you did.  According to Sica, few people live long enough to make it to the mud pits—and even then, survival rates are poor.  That will change though.”  She glanced back at John, tipping her head to one side thoughtfully.  “They are very much interested in trading the antivenin for permission to study the plant life—with certain restrictions, of course.”

 

“Ronon and Teyla?”  John winced as he spoke.  The headache was still pretty bad.

 

“Handling negotiations.”  Rodney was abrupt, which meant he was mollified by Dr. Fraiser’s praise of his actions but either still worried about John or fretting about being covered in mud.  “And before you ask,” Rodney held up a hand, “all has been forgiven of Ronon.  They’re not planning to feed him to a Venus Flytrap for his criminal trespass earlier.  I’d stay myself, to assist in the negotiations, but I’m not exactly dressed for it.”  Rodney indicated his clay-covered self with a wave of his hand.  He splayed his toes and mud flaked off of them.

 

“And because Teyla made you leave,” John murmured.

 

“Hey!  I heard that!” 

 

“Gentlemen.  The Colonel needs to rest now.  You can banter later.”  Janet Fraiser was no taller than Teyla when she stood up in the skipper, but she had that same air of command about her.

 

“She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed,” Rodney muttered under his breath, not very quietly.  John snickered, which made Rodney smile evilly.

 

Carson prepped John’s catheter to inject another medication.  “What’s that?” John asked as Carson injected a small amount of a rather thick-looking clear liquid.

 

“A benzodiazepine,” he explained.  “Similar to valium.  Just a touch, to help with the pain, and as muscle relaxer.  Should help you sleep as well.”

 

“Cool,” John said.

 

It was the last thing he remembered for a while.

 

****

 

Recovery was slower than he’d liked.  Carson would have let him out after twenty-four hours, but Janet made him stay an additional twelve.  “I’ve been reading your mission reports, Colonel Sheppard,” she had said as she discharged him.  “I spoke with Colonel Carter as well.  I’ve had plenty of experience in dealing with stubborn colonels, and they don’t scare me.  So I’m giving you fair warning.  I’m not likely to let you go off charging about with bits of intestines hanging out, or back on duty less than twenty-four hours after a defibrillator unit was used on you to kill a parasite, or go flying out the door with an ‘I’m fine’ after some plant decided to try and eat you for lunch.  Got it?”

 

“Yes ma’am,” John had said meekly.

 

“Janet Fraiser needs to go back Earth now,” John pronounced when Rodney stopped by his quarters later that evening. 

 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Rodney said, wandering in as he used a spoon to scrape the last bit of chocolate out of a pudding cup.  “She seems to know her stuff.  I’m guessing she told you no more climbing the city like Spiderman or any of that shit, eh?”  He licked his spoon clean and stuffed it into a back pocket, tossing the empty plastic container at John’s wastebasket and missing. 

 

“Traitor,” John said, watching as Rodney went over to pick up the cup and drop it in the can.  _Nice ass_ , he thought, and then kicked himself mentally.

 

Rodney looked around as though surprised to find himself in John’s quarters and at a loss for what to do.  He’d come straight from the labs and was wearing that tightish blue shirt with the short sleeves that John thought looked so good on him, and his khaki pants.  This was his Rodney.  The sight pleased him, and he made a mental note to bring Rodney fruit sometimes instead of muffins. 

 

“Beer?”  John suggested.

 

Rodney brightened.  “Outside.  It’s nice out tonight.  Oh wait, should you really be drinking beer?”

 

“I have to,” John said as he pulled the six-pack out of the small dorm-sized fridge.  “I don’t have any 18-year-old single malt.”

 

“Something tells me there’s a story in there somewhere,” Rodney said, but made no further protest about the beer.

 

Rodney was right; it was a nice night.  In the middle of the ocean as they were, the seasons were less obvious, but there was a freshness to the breeze that spoke of cooler days to come.  John liked the sea better in the winter.  During the days, the water was choppy with whitecaps, and at night, the skies were brilliant with stars.  The four of them, Rodney, Teyla, Ronon and John, had spent numerous evenings out on the pier, naming the constellations on the world of the Ancients and coming up with stories for them.  Radek had uncovered a database with the real names for the star groupings, but John liked theirs better.

 

The sun was setting, lighting up the clouds with bands of pink, orange, and red.  It was one of the more spectacular sunsets John had seen here on Atlantis, and he sat in silence, sipping his beer as the sun went down.  It was good to be home. 

 

Rodney sat quietly as well, which was unusual for him.  He worked the metal tab back and forth on his can of beer until it broke off unexpectedly.  As though that were his cue, Rodney flicked it to one side and began to speak.  “So, um.  Mud bath.  How much of that do you remember?”

 

“I remember the plant thing hurt like hell and that the mud stank to high heaven,” John said.  They were sitting on the edge of the pier, about a foot apart.  John took another sip.  The wind ruffled his hair and he appreciated the coolness of it, grateful that he’d changed into his ‘I’m on restricted duty’ clothes and was wearing a long-sleeved shirt over his T-shirt.

 

“What else?”  Rodney shot him a bright, inquisitive glance, sideways, out of the corner of his eye.

 

John shrugged, “I dunno, Rodney.  I was kind of out of it.  I kept falling asleep and having weird dreams.”

 

“Are you sure they were dreams?”  Rodney spoke without looking at him, taking a drink from his can, and staring out across the red-gold sea.

 

John thought about the images he’d seen and the things it felt liked he’d experienced.  The hallucinations he’d had before they placed him in the mud pit were just that—he could recognize the dreamlike quality of them now.  But the others?  They’d felt pretty damn real. “Why do you ask?”

 

Now it was Rodney’s turn to shrug.  “It’s just I might have possibly had some weird experiences while sitting in the mud hot tub with you.”

 

John smiled at that.  Rodney always came up with the best snarky descriptions.  It was the naming he sucked at.  _Don’t think about sucking…_ Instead, he said, “What kind of weird experiences?”

 

He knew Rodney wouldn’t be able to resist talking about it.  “Okay, this is going to sound off the wall, but when I was in the mud, I had these strange… visions.  Only they were more like out-of-body experiences, except that I was in my body—only not _this_ body, but the body of another me, in another universe.”

 

John was tempted to say something along the lines of ‘Do tell’, but he was curious about what Rodney had seen and done.  “Yeah,” he confessed.  “Me too. Only I thought it was just the plant toxin at first.”

 

“Hah!”  Rodney snapped his fingers.  “I knew it.  I knew there was a perfectly logical explanation as to why Sica seemed to know so much about us.  She’s been in the pit!”

 

John blinked.  “Did you just hear what you said?  Special mud that allows you to travel to other universes is a perfectly logical explanation?”

 

Rodney scowled and made a dismissive motion with his hand.  “It’s certainly more logical than thinking she has ESP.  Besides, we probably didn’t really travel to other universes—more like had these, ah, illuminating revelations.  You know, like that mushroom, whatchamacallit, peyote.”

 

John suddenly remembered that he’d wanted to tell Rodney a joke about mushrooms, but he couldn’t quite recall what it was now.  “It felt like I was really there.”

 

“Me too,” Rodney agreed, his eyes going round as he raised his eyebrows.  “And let me tell you, most of the other universes suck.”

 

John nodded.  “I seemed to be dead a lot.”

 

“I know!” Rodney exclaimed.  “Wasn’t that a crazy one where Carson and I recreated you from bits of your DNA after a skipper crash?”

 

“You must have been watching _The_ _Fifth Element_ again,” John said.  “Eeww.  I didn’t go to that one.  So did I look good in the outfit consisting of strategically placed white straps?”

 

To his astonishment, Rodney turned bright red.  “As a matter of fact, um, you did.”

 

There was a long moment of silence.  “I was paralyzed in one.  And you and I both had some major damage in another,” John said at last.

 

“Hah.  I was part _Wraith_.”  Rodney nodded with the corners of his mouth turned down, pointing his can at John when he looked at Rodney in surprise.

 

“We kissed in one of mine,” John said, realizing only a second too late where his game of one-upmanship had taken him.  There was another long moment of silence.  John risked a glance at Rodney.

 

“We… um… you know, in one of mine.”  Rodney was red again.  His hand made a vague jacking motion and John felt his cock press tight against his fly.

 

“Well, yeah.”  John was at a loss.  “What’s up with that?”

 

Rodney cleared his throat.  “We seemed, um, close in a lot of universes.”

 

John looked down at his hands.  “Um,” he said.

 

“So, what was the kissing like?  Speaking purely out of scientific curiosity, mind you.”

 

“We didn’t kiss in any of your universes?”

 

“No.” Rodney frowned.  “I feel oddly cheated.”

 

“Hey, at least you got off. I didn’t even get any of the Glenmorangie.”

 

Rodney grinned, and suddenly the awkwardness was gone.  “Ah, now I get the single malt reference.”  His expression changed and he went back to fiddling with his can again.

 

“So, you uh, want to try it out?”  John couldn’t believe he was asking this.

 

“Try what out?” Rodney’s tone was sharp, but John thought he could sense a flash of hope there too. 

 

 _Like a lightning bug_ , he thought, and suddenly all of those other universes gave him the courage to do what he never thought he’d do.  “The kissing.  Only seems fair.” John shrugged as though it were no big deal.

 

“You’re serious.”  Rodney’s voice was flat. For once, his face was expressionless, and John was surprised he couldn’t read it.

 

“It was just a thought,” John said, already backpedaling from the idea and wishing he’d never brought it up.

 

“No, no!  I want to, I just…”  Rodney reached for him with the hand holding the beer.  Cursing, he set it down clumsily, spilling some.  “I didn’t think—oh, you know what?  Never mind.  Yes.  I’m interested.”

 

John reached for him.

 

“What?  No!  Are you crazy?  With the two of us sitting on the end of the pier like this?  We might fall in!”

 

John looked down at the waves far below his dangling feet.  Rodney had a point.  He set his beer down and got to his feet, reaching down to give Rodney a hand up.  He pulled Rodney into his chest.  The contact felt good, warm against his body where the night air was turning cooler.  He bent his head slightly and Rodney pushed him away.

 

“We’re still too close to the edge.  And not out here in the open where anyone might see us.  DADT won’t be officially over for another three months.”

 

John’s mild annoyance was tempered by Rodney’s words.  “You’ve been paying attention to when DADT ends?” He collected the beer cans so that Sam wouldn’t yell at them and they walked back to the doors leading out onto the pier.

 

“Maybe,” Rodney said, a little flustered.  “Simply because I know that anything that has to do with the military has a direct effect on you and an indirect effect on me as well.  Me as in your teammate me.  As in with Ronon and Teyla too.”  He paused just outside the doors to the city.  “Okay, this is good.”

 

“Right here?” John was confused now.

 

“Did I stutter?” John realized some of Rodney’s waspishness was nerves.  “We’re far enough from the end of the pier to be safe, and yet we’re in the shadow of the city walls so no one can see us from above, and I don’t want to wait any longer.”  He wiped his palms along the tops of his thighs a few times.

 

John looked around blankly for a moment, uncertain what to do with the beer cans.

 

“Oh my god,” Rodney said, snatching the cans out of John’s hands and setting them down by the doors.  “You are so bad at this.  All this time I’ve been calling you Kirk but you’re not Kirk at all.  You’re… you’re… you’re _Lt. Barclay_!” Rodney finished triumphantly.

 

“I am not.”  John was indignant.  “You take that back.  If anything, I’m Tom Paris.”

 

“I’ll grant you that.” Rodney nodded grudgingly at first and then more thoughtfully.  “No, really, I can see the similarities.  Hot shot pilot, estrangement from his father, reckless to a fault, often in disgrace...”  He trailed off to stare at John’s mouth.

 

Oh.  Right. The kissing.  Which was proving harder to initiate than he’d thought it would be.  He took a step closer to Rodney, close enough that he could feel the heat of his body once more.  Laying a hand on Rodney’s shoulder for support, he leaned in and brushed Rodney’s lips with his own. 

 

Rodney just stood there.  John pressed a little harder with his lips and felt Rodney give tentatively but not completely.  He withdrew.

 

“Is that the best you can do?” Rodney sounded disappointed.

 

“I thought you said we… you know.”   He repeated Rodney’s earlier gesture.




 

Rodney’s face blossomed with embarrassment.  “I arrived into the middle of things on that one. It’s not like I _started_ anything or anything.” 

 

“Funny,” John said, nettled for reasons he could not explain.  “Because in the universe where you kissed me, you practically threw me up against the wall.”

 

“I did?”  Rodney’s voice squeaked and his eyes grew round again.  It was getting dark now.  If not for the light coming from the interior of the building through the glass doors, John would have trouble making out his expression. 

 

“Yeah.”  John’s voice was silky.  “First you pulled a gun on me because you realized I wasn’t the right Sheppard.  Then you slammed me up against the wall like this.”  John spun Rodney around and into the wall, following the motion with a full-body press.  “You had the gun in your hand here.”  He clapped his right hand on the wall by Rodney’s ear.  “And then you kissed me.”

 

He took Rodney by the back of his head and laid one on him, savaging his mouth until Rodney moaned and opened up, begging for John to enter him, suddenly meeting the kiss back with a surge of passion that had the two of them rutting up against each other.  Breathless, they parted.  John continued to press against Rodney, pinning him to the wall.  They stared into each other’s eyes until John asked, “What now, McKay?”

 

Rodney’s expression grew sly.  He shifted underneath John, widening his stance so that John fit in between his thighs, so that they were cock to cock and John could feel the slight rocking of Rodney’s hips.

 

“Well,” Rodney said.  “You showed me what the kissing was like.  I think it’s only fair for me to show you what you missed.”

 

“I’m all about fairness,” John said, leaning in to nuzzle Rodney’s jaw line.  “Barclay indeed.”  He murmured his words against Rodney’s skin.

 

Rodney chuckled.  “Just don’t call me B’Elanna.”

 

~fin

 

 


End file.
